Blood Will Out
by Eledhwen
Summary: Sequel to 'Thicker than Water', now complete.
1. Spring Break

Disclaimer: not mine, not mine!  
  
Author's note: picking up a few months after the end of 'Thicker than Water'. Might help if you read that first. Feedback always welcome!  
  
  
  
"Phone! Connor!"  
  
Connor clattered down the stairs and took the phone from his mother, who smiled and said, "dinner in ten minutes."  
  
"Connor Abrams speaking," Connor said.  
  
"It's Angel. How are you?"  
  
Connor grinned to himself, and sat down at the bottom of the stairs. "I'm great. You?"  
  
"As ever," replied his father. "Are you busy next week? Isn't it your spring break?"  
  
"You remembered."  
  
"Of course I remembered. I can remember what I was doing on New Year's Eve 1800, I'm not going to forget my son's holidays." Angel's voice was warm. "Can you come?"  
  
"I can ask," Connor said. "I think Mum and Dad are both busy, I didn't have any big plans."  
  
"Ask them."  
  
"Hold on." Connor put the phone down on the stairs and hurried through to the kitchen, where his parents were laying the table and finishing off cooking together. "It's Angel on the phone," he said. "He wants to know if I can go visit next week."  
  
His father – his other father – put down a knife and turned to Connor. "Do you want to go?"  
  
"Yeah." Connor nodded. "You're both busy, at work …"  
  
"If you want to go," his mother said, "we obviously can't stop you. But one day we'd like to meet him. All right? Tell him that."  
  
Connor nodded again, and then hugged his mother. "Thanks. Thanks, Dad." He hurried back to the phone. "Hey. I can come."  
  
He could almost hear Angel's smile on the other end. "Good."  
  
"But they said you have to come visit us some day."  
  
"That'll be interesting," Angel sighed. "All right. Come on the bus, and I'll get Gunn to pick you up, and then I'll bring you back at the end of the week."  
  
"Cool. Okay. Can we practice fencing?"  
  
"Of course. See you on Monday."  
  
"Bye, Dad. See you."  
  
In the kitchen, food was laid out on plates and Connor slid into his seat and tucked a napkin under his chin. "Thanks, Mum, Dad."  
  
They began to eat.  
  
"So, is he coming to see us?" Connor's father asked.  
  
"He said he'd bring me back at the end of the week," Connor said through a mouthful of pasta, and caught his mother's eye. "Sorry." He swallowed. "So I'm going on the bus, and then he'll drive me back."  
  
"Is he a safe driver?" his mother asked.  
  
"Yeah. I guess. He has a cool convertible, black."  
  
"He'd better bring you back in one piece," Connor's mother said, concern all over her features.  
  
"Mum, I'm fifteen! I don't need babying anymore. I can drive myself next year."  
  
"God forbid," his father said devoutly. "And not a convertible, anyway."  
  
* * *  
  
Connor hefted his bag and headed towards the black Plymouth and the black man standing by it. "Gunn!"  
  
"Hey, kid." They exchanged high fives. "Good to see you. Angel's been up since ten this mornin' fretting about your room. Like an old woman. Jump in."  
  
Connor threw his bag into the back and climbed in beside Gunn.  
  
"So, how've you been?" the older man asked, easing into the traffic.  
  
"Good. I won a track competition. And school's been all right. A break is good, though."  
  
"Breaks are always good," Gunn said with emphasis. "Especially from fighting the good fight. I reckon I'm gonna be too old for it one day."  
  
"Not that soon, though," Connor said. "I'd give you a week or so."  
  
"Get away with you!" Gunn said, and they teased each other amicably till they arrived at the Hyperion. "There you go. Go and let Angel know you've got here."  
  
Connor found his father pacing the lobby impatiently, but he turned as Connor entered, and a wide smile spread across his face.  
  
"Hi."  
  
"Hey." Connor dropped his bag. "I'm here."  
  
"I'm glad."  
  
Cordelia and Fred appeared from the office and engulfed Connor in warm hugs. "You've grown," said Cordelia, standing back and examining him. He fidgeted under her scrutiny.  
  
"I don't think so," Fred disagreed.  
  
"Aunts' privilege," Cordelia said, laughing at Connor's face.  
  
"I, erm, did some decorating," Angel said from the side, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "In your room."  
  
"Cool." Connor disentangled himself from Cordelia and Fred and picked up his bag. "Can I see?"  
  
He followed Angel up the stairs to the room he had slept in before, and his father opened the door. "I hope you like it … I'm not really very good on what boys like …"  
  
Connor looked around the room, went back to the wall, switched on the light and looked around again.  
  
The room had originally been papered in something bland and old-fashioned; now the walls were pale blue and covered in pictures. Connor prowled around the room looking at them. There were several of his old baby photographs; photos of Fred and Gunn and Cordelia; a painstaking sketch of Darla, framed in a simple wooden frame; and various posters – sports stars and film stars.  
  
"It's nice," Connor said, eventually, going to the curtains and carefully peeking through them at the view. "Much nicer than before. The photos are great."  
  
"You like it?" His father was still hovering nervously at the door.  
  
"Yeah," Connor said, for although he would have chosen different posters and probably a different coloured paint, he appreciated the effort. "Can we do some fencing when I've unpacked?"  
  
"Unpack? No … don't unpack." Angel stepped into the room. "How about a trip? A little further north, only two hours or so. There are people I want you to meet. Do you mind?"  
  
"A road trip?" Connor grinned. "Yeah. Great. Where are we going?"  
  
Angel squared his shoulders. "Sunnydale."  
  
They spent the afternoon in the basement, after Connor had tried to get answers from his father about Sunnydale and failed. They began with some t'ai chi, despite Connor's objections to something so similar to dance, in his opinion; but eventually Angel persuaded his son to watch and copy.  
  
"Stand like this," he said, pushing Connor gently into position. "Now follow me. It's easy, and it's good for you. It teaches you grace and coordination and without those, you can never become a good fighter. Raise your arms … palms downwards …"  
  
They settled into the rhythm of the movements, Connor finding it peaceful following his father and the concentration on his face. After the t'ai chi, Angel brought out the swords and Connor eagerly listened to everything he had to say on fencing. Although by the end of the afternoon he had still not succeeded in getting past his father's guard, and his legs were aching, he was happy, and happier still when Angel passed him a stake.  
  
"I think you've earned that. Keep it handy."  
  
Angel made Connor shower and change before they left, and Cordelia and Fred were in the lobby to say goodbye.  
  
"Call me if you have a vision," Angel said, bending and kissing Cordelia on the forehead. She smiled fondly at him.  
  
"Will do. Behave yourself. No Buffy-brooding, all right?"  
  
"I promise. Fred, tell Gunn to be sensible."  
  
"He won't listen to me," Fred said cheerfully, "but I'll tell him you said so. Have a nice time."  
  
"Mind the monsters don't bite," Cordelia said darkly, "and take Connor to the Bronze so he can have a mocha in my memory."  
  
"I'm sure Connor likes his mochas full-fat with cream," Angel laughed, "but I promise." He glanced at his watch. "Sun's down. Let's go."  
  
His father said little in the car, and Connor settled back with the wind in his hair and turned up the radio. After a while Angel turned it down without a comment, and Connor decided not to say anything. The road was empty and Angel pushed the Plymouth fast, and in under two hours they had reached the outskirts of a small, ordinary looking town. They passed the ruins of a big building with signs reading "Danger! Keep out!" and headed up a hill past a cemetery, finally coming to a halt outside a large house on its own at the end of the road. Angel turned off the ignition.  
  
"Welcome to Sunnydale," he said. 


	2. Welcome to Sunnydale

Disclaimer etc.: see chapter 1  
  
  
  
  
  
Connor climbed out of the car and followed his father down a flight of steps into a small courtyard, where dead plants grew in abandon around a small water fountain from which no water trickled. Angel pulled a set of keys out of his pocket and unlocked the makeshift door, seeming to steel himself before opening it and going inside. Connor waited, and after a few minutes light flickered on inside, and he stepped through the door.  
  
He found himself in a vast hallway, a bare bulb hanging mournfully from the ceiling but shining brightly enough to see by. There was a little furniture, covered in dust sheets; a huge fireplace; and doorways evidently leading to other rooms. The whole place had an air of melancholy and neglect.  
  
Angel was bending by the fireplace trying to light the coal he had heaped into it, and eventually a flame started up and began to catch hold. Connor watched as his father stood up and looked around him, and then took off a dust sheet and examined the aged sofa it had covered.  
  
"Mice."  
  
"What?" Connor crossed the room and came to stand next to his father.  
  
"Mice have been eating my sofa. Wretched animals." Angel poked a finger into a hole. "See?"  
  
"What is this place?" his son asked, feeling a little confused but trying not to show it.  
  
"I lived here for a while," Angel said, and Connor trotted after him towards one of the doorways. "When I left Sunnydale, I kept it. Nobody would have bought it in any case; people think it's haunted and for good reason."  
  
"Is it haunted?" Connor's face lit up. "Cool."  
  
"Only by memories," Angel returned, his face grim and shadowed in the half- light. He pulled back a curtain which fell to pieces under his fingers. "Damn."  
  
They stood in the doorway, Connor coughing a little from the dust, and Angel surveyed the room. There was a bed frame, half-collapsed, and a few pieces of wooden furniture.  
  
"I'd forgotten," Angel murmured, "how things age." He shrugged. "We can't stay here. I could, but you're not. Come on."  
  
Connor hurried after him as they headed out, Angel stopping to put the fire out.  
  
They checked into a motel, being given a small and dingy room with two twin beds.  
  
"But if you have friends here," Connor said, sitting on his and sinking into the mattress, "can't we stay with them?"  
  
"I don't want to bother them," Angel said, dropping a small bag next to the other bed and fishing a stake out of it. "I don't want to be obliged to them. It's a place to sleep, that's all that matters."  
  
Connor bounced experimentally on his bed and felt the springs creak under his weight. He shrugged. "Okay."  
  
Angel straightened up from his bag. "I'm sorry, Connor. I have too many memories associated with this place. I'll try and be a little more cheerful and a little less …"  
  
"Broody?" suggested Connor.  
  
"Exactly. You've been talking to Cordy too much." His father gave him a half-smile. "Come on, let's not stay here until you absolutely have to go to bed."  
  
They walked this time, heading into the town centre. It proved to be a nice town, small and well kept. There was a cinema on the main street, and a café buzzing with business. Angel and Connor walked past the café and along, and Angel paused outside a shop with the 'closed' sign hanging in the window, though lights were still on inside. Connor glanced up, and read the sign. "The Magic Box. Prop. A. Harris." On the door was another sign, "For All Your Magical Supplies."  
  
Angel squared his shoulders and pushed the door open.  
  
Inside, Connor discovered, there were shelves and tables covered in old books and strange substances. He spotted a crystal ball and a cauldron, jars full of powders, a display cabinet of daggers. The shop smelt slightly of incense or something similar.  
  
Down in the second half of the shop, near the counter, there was a round table stacked high with books, and a group of people sitting around it talking heatedly. They had not seemed to notice the newcomers' arrival, and continued talking for a moment whilst Angel and Connor stood and watched.  
  
At the head of the table, nearest the counter, sat a small, slim, blonde woman. Connor guessed that she and indeed all but one of the people were about Cordelia's age. His parent's age. Next to the blonde woman a striking redhead was waving her arms around excitedly, and next to her another blonde – less clearly pretty, but interesting – was gazing at her and nodding. Going around the other way, Connor took in a dark-haired man with a mouth that was turned up in a smile, and a thin woman with a clever face. But it was the last person that somehow caught his interest most, probably because he was sitting back in his chair, booted feet up on the table, a cigarette in his hand, and best of all, bright white hair.  
  
"It's the only way!" the redhead said. "We blast it with a spell, and then Buffy and Spike take it out."  
  
"Not that spell," the petite blonde said. "We've discussed this before, Will." She stood up. "Not that one."  
  
She turned around, and stopped dead, her eyes opening wide. "Angel?" The word came out as a sigh of air, questioning, hopeful but cautious.  
  
Connor glanced at his father, who seemed locked in the same statuesque position.  
  
"Buffy."  
  
"Angel!" The redhead jumped up from her chair and hurried across the room to give Angel a hug. "You never said you were coming."  
  
"It was somewhat impromptu," Angel returned, patting the woman on the back. "You look great, Willow."  
  
Willow. Buffy. Connor stored the names away.  
  
"Peaches." The blond man waved his cigarette end in the air.  
  
"Spike."  
  
Spike? Connor thought.  
  
The blonde woman, Buffy, came a little closer. "It's good to see you, Angel."  
  
"You too. How are things?"  
  
"As ever. I keep telling the Council to send a proper Slayer here, but they don't listen. I blame Spike."  
  
"Everyone always blames me," the blond man said, and Connor noticed he had an accent. "Bloody Americans." An English accent. "Who's the kid, Angelus?"  
  
Suddenly Connor felt like he was under a spotlight, as six pairs of eyes swivelled to him. "Hi," he said, awkwardly.  
  
"This is Connor," Angel said, cutting in and coming close to him, protectively. "Connor, Buffy Summers. Willow Rosenberg, Tara Maclay," gesturing to the interesting blonde, "Xander and Anya Harris – this is Anya's store – and Spike."  
  
"Hey." Connor smiled a little at them, and suddenly Willow, the redhead, gasped and opened her mouth.  
  
"He's … what … but …" she stammered.  
  
"Well, well," Spike said, standing loosely and crossing the floor to face Angel and Connor, "guess that crap about vampires not having kids was wrong, eh, Peaches?"  
  
There was silence. Angel fiddled with his ring and avoided Buffy Summers' gaze. She looked from Angel to Connor and back again, big green eyes in a small, old face. Connor looked at the floor.  
  
"He's your son?" she asked, eventually. There was a pause. "You had a child, and you never told me?"  
  
"There's always an argument," Xander Harris said. "Every time he comes, there's an argument."  
  
Willow smiled encouragingly at Connor. "Come on over here and help us research. I think your dad and Buffy have a bit of talking to do."  
  
Connor followed her over, as Angel and Buffy Summers went out of the shop door.  
  
"Have a seat," Tara said, her voice quiet and soft.  
  
"How old are you, Connor?" Willow asked, handing him a book. "We're looking for a blue demon with eyes on stalks like a snail."  
  
Connor started turning the pages of the book, trying to attend to these new people and block out the raised voices from the street at the same time. "Fifteen."  
  
"The old man kept that a good secret," the blond Spike commented, lighting another cigarette. "Fifteen bleedin' years and never a word."  
  
"I was adopted, when I was a baby," Connor explained. "I only found Dad a couple of months ago." He squinted down at the picture in front of him. "Er. Yuck. He said it was to keep me safe, he was worried about me."  
  
"Angel worries," Anya Harris said helpfully. "And this is my store, so no stealing or I'll make him pay."  
  
"Anya, I'm sure he's been properly brought up," her husband said soothingly.  
  
The shop door banged open and Buffy Summers stormed back in, her eyes blazing. "Darla!" she said. Angel followed her, closing the door. "Darla! You – and Darla! And you never said a word, not a word!"  
  
"Darla, eh?" Spike whistled. "Nice work, Angelus."  
  
"Shut up, Spike," Angel said, in union with Buffy. They paused, and glared at each other.  
  
"I never said anything because it didn't concern you," Angel said, his voice steely. "And there was the slight matter of you having just been resurrected – I wasn't going to try and explain a baby on top of that. And I only just found out that he was looking for me, this is the first opportunity I had to come. We're busy saving lives too, as always."  
  
"You told me you couldn't have kids!" Buffy shouted. "Years ago. In the cemetery. Remember?"  
  
"I didn't think I could!" Angel returned heatedly. "I –"  
  
Willow shook her head. "This is stopping. Now." She raised a hand, and spoke a single word in a foreign language, and Angel's voice was cut off. "Buffy," she said sternly, "Angel brought his son here to meet us. He had perfectly good reasons for not telling you. Angel. Both of you have your own lives now …"  
  
"Or unlives," muttered Xander Harris. "All right, Will, shutting up now."  
  
"And can be polite and adult. Nearly forty, remember? Nearly 260, Angel?" She raised her eyebrows, and after a moment, Angel and Buffy both nodded. "Good." She lifted her hand again. "Behave yourselves."  
  
"Sorry, Willow." Buffy rubbed her throat and turned back to Angel. "It's just been so long since you've been here. I missed you."  
  
"I missed you too," Angel replied, his voice low, and met her eyes.  
  
"Back with the googly eyes," Spike said. "Great. I am going to go for a walk and hopefully kill something. Shall I take the kid, Angel, so you and the Slayer can catch up?"  
  
Angel looked torn. "Only if you promise not to harm a hair of his head, or let him get harmed," he said after a moment. "I swear you'll not see another night without pain if he's hurt." There was a pause. "And if he wants to go. Connor?"  
  
"I don't mind," Connor said, shrugging.  
  
"C'mon, then." Spike stubbed out his cigarette and stood up.  
  
"I'll see you later," Angel told Connor. "I'll come and find you. Still the same crypt?" he asked Spike.  
  
"Still the same. Home sweet bloody home now, that place." Spike raised a laconic hand to the room at large, and headed out with Connor by his side. 


	3. Tall Tales

Disclaimer: see chapter 1  
  
  
  
"So, you're Angel and Darla's kid." Spike, his hands in his pockets, strolled along the main street of Sunnydale. "And here was I thinking those two had split up years back. Guess that means we're related, you and I."  
  
Connor frowned, and stuck his own hands in his pockets. "How?"  
  
Spike tipped his head on one side. "Well, you know the bit about your old man being a vampire?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"So'm I." Spike grinned, and then like lightning his face flickered from human to demon and back again. "In vamp terms, Peaches – Angel – is my grandsire. He turned a girl back in the Big Smoke, and then she found me."  
  
Connor tried to get his head around this new information. "What, you mean Dad's like your grandfather?" Spike nodded. "So that makes me your uncle."  
  
"But," Spike drew out his packet of cigarettes, extracted one, put the pack away again and lit his fresh cigarette, "my Dru, vamp who turned me, also turned Darla after she'd been made human again. Meaning I'm your uncle too."  
  
Connor laughed. "Weird. Do you have a soul too?"  
  
"Me! No way, mate." Spike puffed a stream of smoke into the night air. "Nah, souls are strictly for Angel. It's sad, and pathetic. It's not right, neither. Us vamps, we're supposed to be big bads, you know? Grr, I'm gonna drink your blood? That's fun, it's exciting an' all. You ask me, it's downright cruel to give a vamp a soul. Takes all his fun away."  
  
They crossed a road and entered some gates, and Connor found they were walking through a cemetery. It was peaceful, and quiet. Spike led him to a large flat monument and jumped up on it, swinging his legs and smoking.  
  
Connor climbed up after him and settled down. "You're English, aren't you?"  
  
"London born and bred," Spike agreed. "Miss it sometimes."  
  
"Where else have you been?" Connor asked, and they spent the next hour discussing the different countries Spike had been to over his years travelling. Connor found himself warming to the bleached blond vampire and his stories.  
  
"So then Dru and I went to Prague," Spike was explaining. Connor was listening to the vampire and staring idly at a new grave directly opposite him. "Good pickings, too," Spike said.  
  
Connor tugged at his sleeve. "Erm, Spike … there's a hand coming out of that grave."  
  
Spike stopped speaking, and directed his attention to the grave in question. "New vamp," he commented, and pulled out a stake. "You just sit here and don't get involved, kid. I'm not in the mood for a tongue-lashing, or any other kind of lashing, from Angelus just at the moment."  
  
Connor watched as Spike, duster flapping slightly in the wind, went to stand above the grave. The hand had been followed by another one, and then two arms, and now the top of a tousled head filthy with dirt emerged, yellow eyes staring and ugly in the moonlight. Bit by bit the young vampire pulled itself out of the grave, the smart suit it had been buried in smeared with mud.  
  
"Evenin'," said Spike, as it scrambled at last to its feet, and rammed the stake into its heart. The vampire disintegrated into dust.  
  
The blond vampire brushed the remains off his clothes and turned to Connor, who had sat watching in amazement. "Does that happen to any vampire?"  
  
"If you stick a stake through its heart, yeah." Spike pushed at the disturbed earth. "Happens to most vamps eventually. Too bloody dim to get out of the way. Not many live as long as me or your dad. God, I'm starving. Fancy a drink?"  
  
He led Connor through the maze of graves and monuments to a particularly large and decorative crypt. Incongruously, the door had a lock and a small bell-push by its side. Spike pulled out a set of keys. "Home Sweet Home," he said, unlocking the door.  
  
Connor hung outside. "It's a crypt," he pointed out. "Someone's buried here."  
  
"Someone lives here," Spike returned, flicking a light switch and illuminating the interior of the crypt. "Me. You coming in?"  
  
Reluctantly Connor followed him in, and Spike closed the door.  
  
To his surprise, the crypt was comfortably furnished. There was a sofa and an armchair, usable if battered; a television set; and a fridge humming peacefully to itself. Spike leaned down and opened the door. "I've got coke. Okay?"  
  
"Fine." Connor accepted the can and watched as Spike opened a beer bottle on the edge of a tomb in the centre of the crypt. The single window was covered with a sheet of wood and there was a bed made up to one side. "It's … nice," he said. "Nicer than I'd thought a crypt would be, anyway."  
  
"It's quiet," Spike said, throwing himself on the sofa and picking up the remote control for the television. "They cut off the electricity sometimes and I lose me telly, but it's free. No rent. No bother. Can't stand bother."  
  
He switched on the television and channel-hopped until he found an old soap opera, and contentedly watched it without saying anything more. Connor sipped at his coke and half-watched the programme, half-watched Spike.  
  
He had come to the conclusion that his new-found relative of sorts was actually a pretty fun person to be around when the door was opened loudly, slamming against the wall.  
  
"Where is he?" Angel's voice echoed around the crypt. "He'd better be … oh, there you are." His father's tone softened. "I was worried, Connor."  
  
"Ya big poof," Spike said casually. "He was fine."  
  
"It's gone midnight," Angel said, coming in and glancing around the crypt. "Will, I cannot believe you still live in this god-awful place. Where's your pride?"  
  
"Don't call me Will," Spike said automatically. "The boy's fine."  
  
"I am, honestly," Connor added. "I had a good time. We worked out we're each other's uncles."  
  
Angel sighed, and shook his head. "Only Spike. Come on, it's past your bedtime."  
  
Connor nodded. "Okay. Thanks, Spike."  
  
"See you, kid." Spike grinned. "He's a good lad, Angelus. Look after him."  
  
"I know."  
  
The crypt door banged shut behind Angel and Connor as they made their way out into the night. "Did you really like Spike?" Angel asked after a few moments of silence.  
  
"I did, honest. He's fun. Open. Says what he thinks. I like that. And he tells good stories."  
  
His father looked worried. "What stories?"  
  
"Mostly about himself. And Drusilla, whoever she is."  
  
"Was. Dru forgot about the sun a few years back and … died." Angel shrugged. "It was a release. She was my worst crime. But Spike loved her, in his twisted way."  
  
"Why don't you ever tell stories?" Connor asked. "All you've ever told me was about Darla, nothing about yourself. Nothing about Spike and all the others. But I really want to hear about you."  
  
Angel put his hands in his pockets and walked a few moments staring at the ground in front of his feet. "Unlike Spike I'm not proud of most of my history," he said. "I was an arrogant, cruel … demon, and then for many decades I was a wreck and really should have staked myself. Only I lacked the courage."  
  
"But it made you you," Connor protested. "Right? You wouldn't be saving people now if you hadn't been who you were earlier?"  
  
"Oh, Connor," his father said, reaching out and putting an arm around his shoulders, "you've been talking to Cordy too much. She always paints me as some kind of hero."  
  
Connor glanced sideways and upwards. "But you are a hero. Anyway, I'm allowed to think that, I'm your son."  
  
His father nodded, and returned Connor's smile. "I hope you turn out better than I."  
  
Connor fell asleep almost immediately once he was in the lumpy motel bed, but woke some time in the early hours from a dream he could not remember. For a moment he thought he was alone in the room, but then saw Angel sitting by the window reading in the moonlight. Connor watched his father's silent figure until he fell asleep again.  
  
In the morning, he found that Angel had fallen asleep on his bed, still fully clothed; and carefully he took his father's shoes off and then made sure that the flimsy curtains were properly closed before tiptoeing out of the room and into the blazing heat of the day.  
  
He found his way to the café on the main street and ordered a coffee and a muffin, and sat and ate them peacefully whilst watching Sunnydale go by in the daytime. In the light it was a pleasant little town, the people laughing and chatting. Connor finished his breakfast and then slid down from his stool and went to find the Magic Box.  
  
In daylight this too looked peaceful and charming. The sign was switched to 'Open – please come in and buy things,' and the shop looked fairly busy. Connor pushed open the door and a bell jangled cheerfully.  
  
A few people were browsing the shelves, weighing up strange ingredients or flicking through old books. Anya Harris was busy behind the cash desk, and Connor caught her voice over the buzz of chatter.  
  
"Thank you for your money. Have a nice day. Come again soon. Don't drop that powder, it'll explode in your face."  
  
Connor crossed the room to her. "Hi."  
  
Anya shot a glance at him. "What do you … oh, you're Angel's kid. Hello. I'm busy now, you know, can you come back later?"  
  
"I just want to know where I can find Ms Summers," Connor said, suddenly realising he did want to talk to the blonde woman his father had argued with the night before. "Then I'll go."  
  
"Oh. Is that all?" Anya shrugged. "She's at work. Goodbye."  
  
"Where does she work?"  
  
Anya sighed, and passed him a business card. "She does self-defence classes. Now go. Shoo. I don't like children in my store."  
  
Connor took the card, thanked Anya, and wandered out, wondering internally at her strangeness.  
  
The card led him to a gym three blocks away, and he climbed the stairs and found himself in a reception area giving on to three large exercise rooms. From one he heard a voice, clear and commanding.  
  
"Straighten your leg. That's good. Now, take it back … kick me. Go on, it won't hurt me if you do it right …"  
  
He peered around the door and saw a class of about fifteen teenagers in white going through the moves of some martial art. Moving around the room, her hair tied back in a ponytail and her slim, small form in white too, was Buffy Summers. He watched as she explained a move to a boy and then slipped flawlessly into the routine to demonstrate it, her body flowing without apparent effort.  
  
The clock on the wall ticked around to eleven o' clock, and Buffy Summers called for an end. The class filed out, some pausing to speak to her, and she went over to a bag and pulled out a water bottle, drinking deeply. Connor sidled into the room.  
  
"Good morning."  
  
She turned around. "Hi."  
  
"I was … can we talk?" Connor asked, fidgeting.  
  
"I've got a free hour," she agreed. "Let me change and I'll be right with you."  
  
He waited in the reception, and in ten minutes she reappeared in loose jogging bottoms and a crop top that despite her age looked good on her.  
  
They walked together to a small park nearby and settled on a bench. Buffy Summers kept examining him, and eventually Connor spoke, trying to ease the palpable tension which had built up.  
  
"Why do you keep looking at me?"  
  
"I'm trying to see Angel in you," she admitted. "I always used to wonder what a child of his would look like. You have his eyes."  
  
"I know." Connor paused. "Why were you both so angry last night? I've never seen him angry before … I haven't seen him much, but I feel I know him, and he's never shouted."  
  
She smiled, ruefully. "I'm sorry. I guess it's just him, he does that to me. Always has. Makes my insides turn inside out and my brain turns to mush. It's ridiculous he should have the same impression on me now as he did nearly twenty years ago. I was your age, Connor, when I met Angel, and I fell in love with him straight away. I guess I never fell out of it, whatever I've tried to tell myself."  
  
Connor digested this. Buffy tucked her knees up on the bench.  
  
"Sorry. It's a lot to take in."  
  
"Not as much as finding out my dad was a vampire," he replied. "That was a shock. But it explained stuff, you know? Like funny dreams I had." He paused, a thought striking him. "So how come you found out he was a vampire?"  
  
Buffy Summers laughed, but the laugh had no humour in it.  
  
"I'm the Slayer," she said. "I was your age; I discovered that I was the one girl in the world with the strength and the speed to fight the forces of evil."  
  
"Wow."  
  
"It wasn't wow." Buffy's voice was flat. "It was why me, and I'm not going to do this, and I refuse to do this. But I couldn't escape. I still can't escape. And as much as I love your father, him being here brings back horrible memories. We can't be together, and I can't stop being the Slayer." She looked younger than her years then, and Connor kept silent, knowing that now was not the time to speak. "Once your destiny's caught up with you, not even death is a way out."  
  
There was silence. Connor wondered at the sadness on his companion's face, and resolved not to ask further questions, nor to raise the subject with Angel.  
  
Buffy sat without speaking for a while, and then suddenly looked up. "I'm going to be late."  
  
"What are you teaching now?" Connor asked.  
  
"Fencing. You want to come and watch?"  
  
"Can I take part?" Connor said. "Dad's taught me some … I want to learn more."  
  
"Sure." She smiled, and her face lit up. "Come along." 


	4. First Blood

Disclaimer etc.: see chapter 1  
  
  
  
Buffy Summers proved to be a good teacher, moving around the class and giving each pupil a fair share of her time. She gently corrected Connor's stance and grip, and taught him a few new moves. By the end of the class Connor was getting on well with his partner and managing more than a few hits.  
  
Afterwards, he waited for Buffy in the reception area, going through his new skills in his head, and then walked by her side towards the Magic Box.  
  
"You move well," she said, after a moment. "You're fast on your feet. Angel's legacy?"  
  
"Maybe. Probably. It's fun, fencing. I like it."  
  
"Keep it a hobby. Don't make it a job." Buffy's face had gone serious again. "Though it's good if you can defend yourself. Probably especially if you're spending time around Angel."  
  
She pushed open the door of the store, and Connor followed her in.  
  
Anya was standing in the middle of the floor surrounded by boxes, looking harassed.  
  
"Buffy. Good. You can lift these heavy boxes."  
  
"Good to see you too, Anya," Buffy returned, but put her bag down and went to her friend. Connor followed her and picked up a box.  
  
"Where do you want it?" he asked.  
  
Anya spent a moment examining him. "Over there. Does this mean I have to give you money?"  
  
"He's just helping you out, Anya," Buffy said gently, picking up another box and following Connor to a bookshelf. "Why don't you hire another assistant, though? You've far too much to do alone. There must be someone in town who could be useful."  
  
"The last one was a demon," Anya said, ticking something off in a book. "He smelt funny. A Rugash and I didn't even notice till he started eating the books. What sort of ex-demon am I, anyway?"  
  
"You're human, Anya." Buffy caught Connor's eye. "Ah, yes. It's a long story. Ask Angel."  
  
They unpacked the boxes in companionable silence, Anya busy with accounts by the cash register. Amongst the books and odd objects in the cartons, Connor saw volumes entitled, 'European Vampyres,' 'Magickal Wards,' and 'The Chronicles of Geoffrey Wolstenhome, Watcher.'  
  
"Oh, I wanted to read that one," Buffy said, whipping the latter out of Connor's hands. "We'll hang on to it, for the library."  
  
"Do people buy these?" Connor asked, putting 'Demon Dimensions: Volume II, Hell Dimensions,' on the shelf.  
  
"Occasionally. Sunnydale attracts both demons and eccentrics. Mostly I think Anya sells silly little charms to people in love and people who want to be in love. And broomsticks, at Halloween." Buffy adjusted her display of statuettes. "There's still a remarkable number of people who refuse to believe that vampires and so on exist."  
  
Connor pushed an empty box inside another. "I should go and check on Dad," he said. "See if he's awake."  
  
"Are you staying at the mansion?" Buffy asked, casually.  
  
"In a motel. The big house, is that the mansion? Mice had eaten the furniture."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Thanks for the lessons, Ms Summers," Connor said.  
  
"Call me Buffy."  
  
Back at the motel, Connor found that Angel was up and reading again, his hair wet from the shower. His father did not seem at all worried that he had not been there, and merely asked if Connor had had a nice day.  
  
"I helped in the magic shop," Connor said. "And Buffy told me to ask you about Anya."  
  
Angel laughed. "That's a way to kill time before sunset."  
  
But he did tell Connor about Anya; the ex-vengeance demon trapped, now happily, inside a mortal body. Connor thought that he could distinguish some envy in his father's words, but listened to the story.  
  
At sunset, Angel stood up and threw Connor his coat. "I have to show you the Bronze. I promised Cordy. But I guess you should eat first."  
  
"I'm starving," Connor agreed.  
  
They headed out, and found a burger bar where Connor ate his way through a mammoth burger and Angel drank beer and picked half-heartedly at his son's extra fries. When the bill had been paid, they started out across town and found themselves outside a large building that looked like a warehouse. There was loud music blasting from inside, and Connor grinned.  
  
"Great."  
  
"It's not changed at all," Angel said in amazement. "The same old Bronze."  
  
Inside, a band was playing something upbeat and the dance floor was filled with young people dancing and chattering away to each other.  
  
"The only place in Sunnydale," Angel said to Connor. "Drink?"  
  
"Root beer, please," Connor said, and chose a seat whilst his father went and got their drinks. In the room full of teenagers, he noticed that Angel somehow did not stand out but blended into the crowd, just another young man enjoying himself.  
  
"The band's cool," he said, as Angel came back with two red cups.  
  
"This is where Sunnydale hangs out," Angel returned. "Humans and vampires alike, usually. It's been refurbished hundreds of times. I broke the pool table once, fighting something."  
  
"And a bloody shame that was," a voice said. "Evenin'."  
  
"Hey!" said Connor.  
  
"Spike."  
  
"Grandsire," responded the blond vampire ironically. "Nice to see you too. Showin' the kid the old haunts, are we?"  
  
"Cordelia asked me to bring him here."  
  
"The fair Cordelia!" said Spike. "Still got a temper, has she?"  
  
"She still speaks her mind," Angel said, defensively. "I see nothing wrong in that."  
  
"Hey, hey!" Spike held up his hands, mockingly. "Did I say anything against your precious Seer?"  
  
"You'd better not," Angel replied, his voice low and steely. "I swear, Spike, that if …"  
  
The band had stopped playing, and there was relative quiet in the Bronze. As Angel spoke, the lights suddenly went out. A few people screamed. Connor found he was gripping his cup of root beer tighter, and forced himself to relax. Beside him, he felt Angel stand up and heard his murmur to Spike.  
  
"What can you see?"  
  
"Ten – maybe twelve vamps."  
  
"And a demon." Connor heard Angel sigh. "Oh, wonderful."  
  
"I was thinkin' I needed a bit of a fight," Spike said.  
  
Angel bent down to Connor. "Stay here. Keep out of trouble."  
  
Spike touched his grandsire on the shoulder. "Erm, Peaches, you might want to take a look at this one … big grey demon-thing, ain't never seen one of them before."  
  
Angel stood up, looked, and was down by Connor's ear once more. "Change of plan. Can you remember the way back to the Magic Box?"  
  
"I think so."  
  
"You know you said you can run?" his father said. "Well, run now. Go and get Buffy and bring her back here as soon as you can. Don't stop. All right? Spike and I will take care of the vampires and the small demon, but we need a Slayer for the big one. Take care. Now go."  
  
Connor nodded, and slipped out of the Bronze.  
  
Outside it was cool, and he took a deep breath before getting his legs moving, and he soon settled into a rhythm, his trainers pounding on the sidewalk. He found he did remember the route, and soon was heading into the centre of town. His legs were tiring now, his breath coming quickly, but every time he thought of the Bronze and the vampires inside, his pace picked up.  
  
He pushed open the door of the Magic Box and hurried in, sliding to a halt, his knees screaming at him.  
  
"Bronze," he panted out. "Dad … Spike … vampires …"  
  
"Old news, kiddo," Xander Harris said lightly.  
  
"There are vampires at the Bronze," Connor said again, a little more clearly. "Big gang of them. And a big big demon. Dad said to fetch Buffy."  
  
"You ran from the Bronze?" Willow Rosenberg said. "You must be exhausted."  
  
"How big?" asked Buffy, already at the weapons' cabinet behind the counter.  
  
"I didn't see," Connor said. "But Spike said it was big and grey."  
  
Buffy hefted a large, double-bladed axe. "This'll do. Xander, you're the wheels. Connor, stay here."  
  
"I'm coming."  
  
"You might get hurt."  
  
"I don't care," Connor said. "I'm not staying here."  
  
Buffy threw him a sword, which he managed to catch. "Okay then. But you stay out of trouble. Let's go."  
  
Xander drove fast and well through the streets and they were back at the Bronze less than half an hour after Connor had left. The car screeched to a halt and Buffy was out, kicking the door of the club open and disappearing inside. Xander followed almost as quickly with his crossbow, and Connor, after taking a deep breath and gripping his sword tightly, went after them.  
  
Inside it was still dark, though someone had switched a light on. A group of people were huddled together on one side of the dance floor, and for a moment Connor thought that other people were actually dancing. Then he realised that the movement was coming from the fighters.  
  
There did not seem to be many vampires left standing. As Connor watched, Buffy swept her axe round and took the head off the last-but-one even as Xander fired an accurate bolt through the heart of the last vampire. Both exploded into dust. Now there were only the two demons left standing.  
  
Spike was engaged in combat with the smaller of the two, kicking and punching, ducking and swinging, but neither of them seemed to have the advantage. Connor saw now that Angel had a smaller version of Buffy's axe in his hand that he must have concealed under his coat, and was wielding it to little effect around the big demon. Angel was clearly hampered by not having a bigger weapon and by being simply a lot smaller than his opponent. Buffy now came to join him, slipping into the attack seamlessly. They fought with each other, neither getting in the way of the other, and for a moment Connor stood entranced, seeing the beauty in their movements.  
  
Then he shook himself, and woke up, and started to think how he could help.  
  
Xander had joined Spike in the fight against the small demon, pulling out a knife from his belt, and together they were beating it down. Connor moved around the edge of the dance floor, closer to the big demon, his father and the Slayer. He waited, watching intently, until Angel had dropped back to allow Buffy to take the offensive, and then he called.  
  
"Dad!"  
  
Angel's head whipped round, and Connor saw that his father was looking at him from behind those glaring yellow eyes, his teeth bared in a snarl. He suppressed the urge to run, and held up his sword. Angel nodded, holding out his hand, and Connor threw the blade, spinning in the air.  
  
His father caught it, twisted it expertly so he had the grip right, and taking a run towards the demon, jumped up, jabbing the point into the creature's forehead, and then rolling and sweeping Buffy out of the way. The demon fell with a crash.  
  
There was silence.  
  
Suddenly, the young people huddled together in the corner made a concerted dash for the exit, and in a few minutes, the Bronze was empty save for two demon corpses, piles of dust, and a group of exhausted fighters.  
  
Buffy was gently running her fingers along Angel's ridged forehead, where a thin trickle of blood was beginning to congeal. He closed his eyes for a second, and when he opened them the vampiric visage had disappeared, to be replaced with his usual human features. He smiled gently and wearily at Buffy, and they stood up together.  
  
"You okay?" Buffy asked Connor.  
  
"Fine. Thanks."  
  
"He wouldn't stay away," she explained to Angel.  
  
"I'm glad he came, just for that sword," Angel said, putting his arm around Connor's shoulders. "But only because of that sword."  
  
He frowned down at his son, who grinned back. "I'm fine, Dad. Look. Not a scratch. Just achy legs from running."  
  
Xander and Spike joined them, Spike ruefully examining his t-shirt, ripped down the middle.  
  
"You did good, kiddo," the blond vampire said. "Take after your old man."  
  
"I sincerely hope he doesn't," Angel said devoutly.  
  
"Ay-men to that!" exclaimed Xander, rubbing his elbow. "Anyone for something to eat?"  
  
They trooped out of the Bronze, leaving behind the remains, and another broken pool table. 


	5. Farewell to Sunnydale

Disclaimer and notes: see chapter 1  
  
  
  
"So then Angel grabbed me, went grr, and just walked up to Spike!" Xander said, gesticulating with a donut.  
  
"And I knew right away that Peaches here wasn't exactly his old evil self," Spike added, through a mouthful of fries. "It'd been what, close on a century?"  
  
"Ninety-seven years," Angel said. "Since China. I don't believe I didn't have you fooled for a moment."  
  
Spike grinned. "Well, perhaps a few seconds." He sighed. "Those were the days. Me and Dru against the Scoobies. What more could a vamp ask for?" He held up a hand in warning. "Don't answer that one."  
  
Connor laughed, and contentedly spooned more ice cream into his mouth. They were sitting around a table in Sunnydale's ice cream parlour, refuelling and reminiscing. Buffy had not said much, but she sat with a smile on her face as Angel and Spike and Xander told Connor stories involving demons and spells and someone English called Giles. It got to midnight, and the three men – or rather, two vampires and Xander – were still going strong. Connor suppressed a yawn behind his hand. Buffy shot him a look.  
  
"Connor's yawning."  
  
Angel immediately broke off his conversation. "Are you tired? What's the time?"  
  
"Midnight," Buffy said severely. "Or, bedtime." She directed a look at Connor that he recognised all too well as a patented mother look. He bent to finishing his ice cream.  
  
They waved goodbye to Buffy and to Spike on the corner, as they both headed off towards a graveyard, "patrolling," the Slayer said, resigned. Xander climbed in his car and drove off in the other direction. Angel put his hands in his pockets and they began the walk back to the motel.  
  
"Are you tired?" his father asked.  
  
"A little, but in a good way," Connor said. "I had a great day."  
  
"Glad someone did," Angel said. "Though I'll admit Xander is far more tolerable now than he ever used to be."  
  
"I like him. I like them all."  
  
"Do you like everyone you meet?"  
  
"I don't think so," Connor said. "There are several guys at school I hate. But I like the people you know. They're fun. They're brave. They're clever. All that's pretty cool."  
  
"You would have got on well with Buffy's sister," Angel mused. "Dawn. She was a lot like you."  
  
"What happened to her?" asked Connor, rather dreading the answer.  
  
"She ran away. Disappeared ten years ago. We don't know where she went or why, and she's never been in touch. Don't mention her to Buffy. She feels she failed Dawn when her mother died, that she should have spent more time with her." Angel shrugged. "Every now and then I get a lead and follow it up, but it's never Dawn."  
  
He pulled out the keys to their motel room, opened the door and let Connor in first.  
  
"Just one more tragedy in the long list that is Buffy's life."  
  
Connor got ready for bed silently, digesting the new information, and got in and lay down, his eyes already fluttering closed. "G'night, Dad."  
  
"Sleep tight, Connor. I'll go out when you're asleep but I'll lock the door. I won't be gone long." There was a clanking noise in the dark. "I've put the weapons bag by your bed. Call if anything happens."  
  
Connor mumbled a reply as he sank into oblivion.  
  
Nothing did happen, and he did not wake up until well into the morning. Angel was sound asleep in the bed next to his, a small smile on his face. Like the previous day, Connor got up and dressed quietly before heading out.  
  
The night before, he had managed to ascertain that Willow Rosenberg was a teacher of computer sciences at the University of California in Sunnydale, and now he hailed a cab, climbed in, and told the driver to take him to the campus. This proved to be an attractive, Mediterranean-style set of buildings set in peaceful grounds. Connor paid the cab driver and set off towards the reception.  
  
Half an hour later, he had found Willow's classroom and was hovering outside, waiting for her to finish her lesson. The redhead was bent over a machine, explaining something with gestures to a student who was nodding enthusiastically. As the bell rang for the end of the hour, Willow said something that made the class laugh, and they picked up their bags and files and streamed out past Connor. Willow sat down again behind her own computer as Connor pushed the door open and walked in.  
  
"Hey," he said.  
  
"Connor!" Willow jumped up and came to hug him. "It's great to see you. Sit down. Have you been waiting long?"  
  
"About five minutes." He pulled up a chair. "Really I just came to say thanks for giving Dad such a nice welcome yesterday. And me. And stopping them arguing."  
  
She smiled, a genuine, warm smile. "It wasn't a problem. Buffy's my best friend, and I always liked Angel. It was so romantic when we were kids at high school – here was this tall dark stranger saving her life." Willow tapped at her computer and switched it off. "Mochas?"  
  
Connor returned her smile. "You bet."  
  
Willow led the way through the campus to a café outside and bought them both big cups of coffee covered in cream. "I used to worry about my weight," she said, stirring hers with a spoon, "but it didn't last long. Now tell me all about yourself."  
  
Connor drank some of his hot, chocolatey coffee, and started talking. Willow was a good listener. He got the impression that she had spent more time when she was young listening than talking. When he had answered all her questions and their coffees were empty, Willow waved a casual hand and the paper cups flew into a nearby bin.  
  
"How did you learn to do that?" he asked, impressed and amazed. "Magic – it's really great."  
  
"It's not." Willow's expression had turned serious and intense. "It's dangerous. I've got it under control now, but there was a time when it nearly killed me. If you want to copy one of us, copy your father. Learn to fight and use a sword." She paused. "But don't let yourself get bitten. Vampires – bad."  
  
"Apart from Dad," said Connor.  
  
"Apart from Angel." The bell rang and Willow looked at her watch. "Oh. Gee. Look, I've gotta run. I'll be at the Magic Box later."  
  
Connor spent the day helping Anya at the store again. A few minutes after dusk, Angel appeared.  
  
"I figured you'd be here," he said. "We need to get going. Cordy rang, she had a vision and I've got to get back to deal with it."  
  
Buffy stood up from the table where she had been researching something. "I'd hoped you'd be staying longer," she said softly. Angel met her eyes.  
  
"I'll be back sooner. I promise."  
  
"You never keep your promises," Buffy said sadly. "But I'll hold on to that. Look after yourself."  
  
"You too."  
  
She came to him and they hugged. Connor hung back, not wanting to get in their way, but Buffy broke off the embrace and moved to him.  
  
"Keep up with the fencing, Connor. Let me know how you get on."  
  
"Will do. I'll make sure Dad comes and sees you more often."  
  
"If you can persuade him, I'll really be impressed," Buffy returned. "Angel's the most stubborn person I know."  
  
Willow hugged Connor too. "Email me." Then she hugged Angel and told him the same thing. "Or at least get Cordy to email me, if you're still scared of computers."  
  
"I am not scared of computers," Angel objected. "I just … prefer paper. I'll write. Come and see us next time you have a conference in LA. Stay at the hotel."  
  
They moved around the room. Angel and Xander shook hands briefly, without much sign of warmth.  
  
"See you, Deadboy."  
  
"Xander."  
  
Anya presented Connor with a small crystal. "I'm not paying you. But nobody wants to buy this so I might as well get rid of it. It's a protection crystal."  
  
"Thanks." Connor took it and put it safely in his pocket. "I enjoyed it."  
  
They turned to go. Angel and Buffy shared another long, intense look before Angel finally broke it off and led the way towards the door. There was a chorus of farewells as the bell jangled the door shut.  
  
By the car, a figure with a shock of white hair lounged, cigarette in hand.  
  
"You off?" said Spike.  
  
"Business calls," Angel returned.  
  
"Well, don't get staked," Spike said, casually. "Only us two left now of the family, Angelus, and as much as I hate you I wouldn't want to see you dusted."  
  
"Three of us," Angel said. "Watch Buffy for me."  
  
"Yeah." The two vampires exchanged looks, and then suddenly Angel reached out and pressed Spike to his chest.  
  
"It was good to see you, William."  
  
"Poof," said Spike amiably. "Hey, kid. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."  
  
He winked, and ground out his cigarette before waving at them and strolling off in the direction of the Magic Box.  
  
Connor and Angel climbed into the car and Angel started it up. They were on the highway heading towards Los Angeles before either of them said anything. Connor looked sideways at his father's pensive features.  
  
"I enjoyed that. Thanks for taking me."  
  
"It was good to have a reason to go," Angel replied. "Because going back is never as bad as I think it's going to be. Make me keep that promise, Connor."  
  
"I will."  
  
They both fell into thoughtful silence. 


	6. Home Sweet Home

Disclaimer etc.: see chapter 1  
  
  
  
"Come and stay. In the summer," Cordelia said, giving Connor a hug and a peck on the cheek.  
  
"Keep up with the fightin'," Gunn added, exchanging high-fives with Connor.  
  
"Call if you need help with homework," Fred finished. "Only not English, 'cos, you know, still a bit wobbly sometimes."  
  
"You should come to San Diego," Connor replied. "The zoo's great." He paused. "Only, maybe, not if you're used to demons. I had a great time this week."  
  
"It's lovely having you here," Cordelia said, sincerely. "Angel's happier when you're here. He smiles more."  
  
"Which is always a good thing," Fred said earnestly, and earned herself a mock glare from her husband.  
  
Angel came hurrying down the stairs with Connor's bag in one hand and his own in the other. "Ready?"  
  
"Ready." Connor watched as his father shook hands with Gunn, and hugged Cordelia and Fred warmly.  
  
"Call me," he said sternly. "I'll be back on Sunday."  
  
They drove south with the top down on the convertible, and Angel let his son turn up the radio and they both sang along to the old eighties' songs, neither of them in tune but neither of them minding. When they got tired of singing, Connor turned the music down and Angel told him about Lorne, the empathic demon who ran a karaoke bar, and his own attempts at singing.  
  
Towards midnight, the deep blackness of the night began to be tinged with orange and Connor sat up and started to give his father directions. Angel grew quieter and more serious as they got closer, and when Connor told him to stop outside the comfortable house he called home, his father was gripping the steering wheel tight enough to make his already pale knuckles whiter.  
  
"We're here," Connor said unnecessarily.  
  
"It's a nice house," Angel said.  
  
"I guess." Connor glanced up at it, and pushed open his door. "Come on, then."  
  
They unloaded the bags and Angel locked his car, sending a backwards glance at it as they headed up the steps towards the front door. Before they got there, he put a halting hand on Connor's shoulder.  
  
"Let me … I don't want to tell your parents the truth, if I can help it," he said. "They're bound to ask all sorts of questions. Let me handle them. All right?"  
  
"Okay." Connor smiled at his father. "I'm sure you've got hundreds of good excuses for not being able to go out during the day and stuff. I'll shut up."  
  
Angel gave him a weak smile in return as Connor pushed open the door.  
  
"Mum! Dad! I'm home." He turned to Angel. "Come on in."  
  
There was the sound of footsteps, and Connor's parents emerged from the living room. The three of them exchanged embraces, and Angel studied the floor intensely as they did so, wanting to run away, preferably fast and very far.  
  
"I had a great time," Connor was saying to his parents. "Very break-y."  
  
"I'm glad, sweetie," Mrs Abrams said, and glanced pointedly towards Angel.  
  
"Oh," said Connor. "Mum, Dad, this is … erm, Dad." He paused. "That came out wrong."  
  
"Brigitte Abrams," Connor's mother said, holding out her hand. "It's wonderful to meet you."  
  
Angel took her hand and shook it.  
  
"Roger," Connor's adopted father introduced himself, shaking hands too.  
  
"Angel," said Angel, pulling himself together and turning on a smile. "I have a lot to thank you both for. Connor's a wonderful young man."  
  
"We're very proud of him," Brigitte said, hugging Connor again.  
  
"And I'm sorry to have brought him back so late," Angel continued smoothly. "I was held up at work."  
  
"It doesn't matter, not in the vacation," Roger Abrams said. "But you must both be tired after the long drive. Connor, do you want to show Angel to the guest room?"  
  
"Sure."  
  
"And then straight to bed," Brigitte said sternly. Her face softened, and she bent very slightly to kiss Connor on the cheek. "Sleep well, honey."  
  
"You too." Connor and his adopted father repeated the embrace, and then Connor hoisted his bag and grinned at Angel. "This way!"  
  
Angel exchanged goodnights with the Abrams and followed his son up the stairs and into a spacious, airy guest room with cream curtains, a cream bedspread and pale blue walls.  
  
"It's not really you," Connor observed, watching his father examine the thickness of the curtains. "Those are lined, it'll be all right. Come on, I'll give you the tour of upstairs. That's Mum and Dad's room. Bathroom," he pushed open a door to reveal a shiny bathroom with a huge mirror covering one wall, and closed it again, "and this is my room."  
  
Angel stood just inside the doorway. "I got yours at the hotel all wrong, didn't I?" he said, looking around at Connor's red walls and sports posters tacked on to them.  
  
"Maybe a little," Connor said, "but I liked it anyway. Don't worry." He started unpacking his bag. "How are you going to manage tomorrow?"  
  
"I don't know," Angel said, wearily. "Somehow." He paused. "I like them, Connor. I'm glad you found each other. I'm sure you'd have been very different had you grown up with me, and I'm glad you didn't have to. Goodnight. Sleep well."  
  
Connor turned from hanging his shirts up in his closet and met Angel's eyes. "I love them, you know. They're my parents. But you're you, you're my only blood relation. You're my father. I love you too. It's not like there's only room for me to love one person."  
  
There was silence for a second, and then Angel smiled, and went out closing the door behind him. Connor sat down on the edge of his bed and took a deep breath, realising what he had said was true.  
  
Half an hour later, Angel had changed into loose pants and a t-shirt and was lying on the cream covers reading Dickens, his mind drifting back to the hectic rush that had been nineteenth-century London. Close by a door closed, and then he heard rustlings and sighs by his head. He put the book down for a moment.  
  
"I'm glad Connor got back safe," Brigitte Abrams said, her voice carrying through the wall.  
  
"Me too. Looks a real gas-guzzler, that convertible, I'm sure it's not safe."  
  
"It's how the car's driven, not the car itself," Brigitte returned.  
  
"Don't you think he seems … young?" Roger asked.  
  
"Young?"  
  
"To have a fifteen-year old son," Roger clarified. "Looking at them, they could almost be brothers … not father and son." There was a pause. Angel frowned to himself and thought about moving away from the wall.  
  
"They do look like each other, don't they?" Brigitte said, wistfully. "The hair."  
  
"The eyes," her husband said. "It's the eyes. It's only right, that they should know each other."  
  
"It's only right," Brigitte agreed.  
  
Angel stood up and sat down in the armchair on the other side of the room, picking up his book again and forcing himself to concentrate on the words.  
  
He fell asleep towards dawn, but was woken a few hours later by a gentle tap on his door and then Connor opening it and poking his head around. "Morning."  
  
Angel rolled over, opening his eyes and blinking in the light seeping through the curtains despite their lining. "Morning." He focused on the line of sunlight creeping through the gap where the curtains did not quite fit. "Can you close that, Connor?"  
  
Connor crossed the room and did so. "It's a nice day. Did you sleep well?"  
  
"This room's too light by far," Angel responded, "but I don't need much sleep." He swung his legs out of the bed and foraged inside his bag, finding a small cool bag containing a thermos, which he opened and quickly drank from before firmly closing it again and putting it away. "There. Now I can face anything or anyone."  
  
"Mum's making waffles," Connor said.  
  
Angel grimaced. "I'm going to have to eat them, aren't I? Do I have time for a shower in that bathroom with the huge mirror?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Connor went downstairs and settled down to waffles, which his mother was turning out of the pan and piling up on a plate.  
  
"Have you got plans for today, sweetie?" Brigitte asked brightly.  
  
"Plans?" said Connor, his mouth full of breakfast.  
  
"Well, if you haven't, I was thinking we should take Angel to the Old Town. Or maybe the zoo. What do you think?"  
  
"Erm." Connor poured syrup on his waffle to stall for time. "I haven't asked him."  
  
His mother added another waffle to the pile and put the plate on the table. "Maybe you should."  
  
Connor ate in silence for a few minutes, his mother reading the morning paper and sipping coffee opposite him. Shortly, there were footsteps on the stairs and Angel arrived in the kitchen; Connor somehow had the impression that his father was trying to be extra noisy on purpose.  
  
"Morning," Brigitte said. Angel smiled, but to Connor it seemed forced.  
  
"Are those waffles I see?" he said. "They smell great."  
  
"Help yourself."  
  
Angel sat down on the shadiest side of the table and reached for a waffle, pouring syrup on it and slowly starting to eat.  
  
"Mum was wondering if you wanted to go and see the Old Town today," Connor said, watching Angel with a certain amount of concern and thinking that his father looked tired, and somehow older.  
  
"Mmmm," said Angel. Then he put down his fork and met Brigitte's eyes. "It's a lovely idea. Though I'm afraid I'm kind of … allergic … to sunlight."  
  
Connor grimaced at the excuse. Brigitte frowned.  
  
"Is that … why you gave Connor up?" she asked.  
  
"One of the reasons," said Angel. He picked up his fork and took a bite of waffle, chewing it thoughtfully.  
  
"Coffee?" asked Brigitte, to break the silence.  
  
"Please. Black."  
  
She got up and crossed to the coffee maker, pouring a mug and turning back to pass it to Angel.  
  
The sudden harsh ringing of the phone cut into the peace of the kitchen. Brigitte jumped, her arm jolting out and knocking an empty mug off the edge of the counter.  
  
Angel's hand shot out and caught the mug, setting it safely on the table, before he took the full one from Brigitte who was now standing and staring at him.  
  
"Answer the phone," he said, quietly.  
  
Brigitte picked it up, still staring at Angel. "Hi. Yes, speaking. This evening?" There was a pause. "I don't know. Call Roger and ask him. Bye." She put the receiver down and turned back to Angel. "That," she said slowly, "was unreal."  
  
"I, um, just have quick reflexes," he said, uncomfortable.  
  
"I didn't even realise I'd knocked it off until you caught it," Brigitte went on. "How did you do that?"  
  
"Like I said, just quick reflexes." Angel picked up his coffee. "Thanks for this."  
  
"No problem." The phone rang again, and Connor's mother sighed. "Excuse me a moment." She took it into the living room and they heard her voice talking quickly. Angel put the coffee down and rested his head in his hands.  
  
"Those excuses always used to work," he said, his voice muffled. "People were so gullible in the old days."  
  
Connor reached out and patted his father's arm. "I'm sure you can think of something."  
  
"But I don't want to!" Angel said, lifting his head. "I want to be honest. And in any case, I can't go out, not into that. Unless you and your mother want a tour of the Old Town's sewer system."  
  
"Yuck." Connor made a face. "Not really, no."  
  
"So you see …" Angel broke off, as Brigitte came back in with a smile.  
  
"Have you decided where we're going?" she asked.  
  
"I can't go out," Angel said, calm now. "I'm sorry. I'd give anything – almost anything – to spend the day out there in the sunlight with you and with Connor. But it's impossible." He smiled, sadly, and stood up. "I have everything to thank you for, Mrs Abrams. You took my son in and gave him the best possible home, a normal home, somewhere safe. And I'll never forget that, never. In return I feel you should know the truth, and I'm sorry for it."  
  
"Dad …" Connor said. "Dad, don't do anything you might re –"  
  
Angel gritted his teeth and held his hand in the stream of sunlight by the kitchen door. In seconds, the skin was smoking. In under a minute, there was a flash of flame, and the heavy odour of burned flesh. Connor jumped up and grabbed his father's hand out of the light, pulling him across the room to the sink where he turned the tap on and thrust Angel's burned skin underneath it. There was a hissing noise.  
  
Connor's mother had her hand over her mouth in horror. "What was that? What happened?" She paused. "What are you?"  
  
"I'm Connor's father," said Angel, cradling his injured hand in the other arm. "But also … I'm a vampire." 


	7. Confessions

Disclaimer: see chapter 1  
  
Author's note: Thanks to everyone for all the great reviews – I've come to rather like them. They're really addictive … I hope this part addresses the fact that, really, telling someone you're a vampire is a bit daft! Although Angel has been known to do some daft things on occasion. Anyway enjoy.  
  
  
  
Connor's mouth dropped open. "What happened to the excuses?" he said. "The keeping it a secret?"  
  
"A what?" said his mother. "A …"  
  
"Bad things happen when I keep it a secret," Angel told Connor, his voice flat. "I kept it a secret from Buffy and her mother got bitten, and then I had to stake Darla. I kept it a secret from Kate; she nearly died and her father did die. I don't want any more deaths."  
  
"And I'm worried about my mother!" Connor said, pushing his chair back, his voice rising. "Look at her! Ordinary people can't take this in all at once!"  
  
"You did," retorted Angel.  
  
"I'm not ordinary and you know it. I know it. But I guess you've been too long without ordinary people. Perhaps you've forgotten."  
  
Angel looked away, his shoulders sagging.  
  
Connor went to his mother. "Mum?"  
  
She looked up at him, confusion in her eyes. "Does he mean like in those Anne Rice books? Because that's not real."  
  
"It's not quite like that," said Connor, feeling much older than fifteen all of a sudden.  
  
"Vampires aren't real," his mother said with conviction. "And perhaps you shouldn't have gone to Los Angeles. Are we sure he's even your father? It sounds like he needs professional help."  
  
"I'm sure," Connor reassured her. "Yes. He's my father. I think he thinks he owes it to you to be honest, which is definitely wrong."  
  
His mother took his hand. "Connor, honey, vampires don't exist. It's quite simple."  
  
"Mum," Connor said, "they do."  
  
Brigitte stood up. "I'm going to call the doctor, get him to come and see you. Are you feverish? How did this man get you to believe what he said?" She frowned. "How did he do that thing with his hand?"  
  
Connor sighed, and looked desperately towards Angel for help. "Dad?"  
  
"What do you want me to say?" Angel turned around. "I'm sorry, all right? I couldn't talk my way out of this one. But I did not want to be here. For fourteen years I pretended to myself you didn't exist. I tried not to think about you growing up. You came to find me, not the other way around. You wanted me to visit your parents. Here I am. Do you want me to deny what I am now? What created you?" He took a single, furious stride across the kitchen. "Because I'm sorry, Connor, I cannot do that."  
  
Connor met his father's furious eyes, shining with anger and flecked with gold, and suddenly he had an idea.  
  
"Mum, don't scream," he warned, and then with all his force and some of the skills he had been taught by Angel in the previous week, he took a step back and launched a high kick at his father. Angel staggered back a step before righting himself, in full 'grr' face, growling.  
  
Brigitte screamed.  
  
Connor grinned. "That," he told his mother, "is a vampire. Who also happens to be my father, who helps people and saves lives and kills demons. And someone I kind of love."  
  
With a shake of his head, Angel forced control over the demon. "I kind of love you too," he said softly.  
  
Brigitte fainted.  
  
Angel crossed to her and picked her up easily, carrying her through to the living room and laying her down on the sofa gently. "Go and get some water," he instructed. "She'll wake up any moment and she'll want to see you and not me."  
  
Connor hurried to fetch a glass of water; Angel hovered near the door as his son gently dabbed a little water on his mother's forehead. "Mum?"  
  
She came around quickly. "Where am I? What happened? Connor?"  
  
"Here. You fainted."  
  
"Wasn't there a … were you saying something about vampires, honey?" Her eyes widened. "He … Angel …"  
  
Connor began to explain again, and Angel slipped upstairs to his shady guest room and sat down heavily on the bed, reaching for the thermos of blood and swallowing it all down before throwing the empty container back into his bag and sighing deeply.  
  
It took Connor half an hour to explain his situation to his mother, and he had to repeat parts of it twice, but eventually Brigitte sighed and held out her hands.  
  
"Stop, Connor, stop. I get it. As much as I can get. It's not right; I should be calling the doctor right now and getting you some help."  
  
"But you saw, Mum," Connor said.  
  
"I saw. And God only knows I don't want to believe my own eyes. Will you – go and fetch him?"  
  
"Yeah." He bent and kissed her.  
  
Upstairs, Connor found Angel stretched out on his bed, eyes closed, and for a moment he thought his father was asleep. But then Angel sat up.  
  
"Well?"  
  
"She wants to talk to you. Says she believes me." Connor sat down next to Angel. "Did you mean that? When you said you'd tried to forget me?"  
  
"I failed," his father said, softly. "I tried so hard to convince myself you'd never been, that it was a figment of my imagination. I'm glad you weren't." He forced a smile. "Right."  
  
They went downstairs together, and joined Connor's mother in the living room where she sat sipping coffee and looking a little better. Connor joined her on the sofa; Angel perched awkwardly on the edge of a chair across the room. There was silence. Angel fiddled with the claddagh ring on his left hand.  
  
"I'm sorry I screamed," Brigitte said, after a while.  
  
"I'm sorry I've broken in our your lives here," Angel returned. "It seems a nice life."  
  
"It is. But you know, at the hospital I've seen so many weird things that we've explained away … knowing there's something else out there kind of makes sense."  
  
"Mum's a nurse," Connor added, helpfully.  
  
"Nobody's willing to admit it to themselves," Angel said. "I know I didn't. Yet that doesn't mean you have to know. And I'll always be sorry I'm the cause of your knowing."  
  
Brigitte smiled, wan but genuine. "As Connor pointed out to me, it was us who forced you here. And I do think we owe it to each other to be honest. We have a shared responsibility."  
  
"What was he like, growing up?" Angel asked softly. "Do you have photos I could see?"  
  
"Boxes full. I'll go and fetch them."  
  
They spent the rest of the morning going through the hundreds of photographs the Abrams had taken and kept carefully of Connor; a small dark child laughing, playing, crying, walking. Brigitte cheered up visibly as she told stories of his childhood, and Connor felt at once embarrassed by the tales of his childhood pranks and happy because his father was happy. Angel examined every picture closely and hung on every word of every story, and Connor noticed that for once he seemed to be allowing himself to show his happiness, with a smile that reached his eyes.  
  
It was lunchtime before they knew it, and Brigitte put away the photographs looking much more content and much more relaxed. Angel politely declined her offer of food, and she disappeared into the kitchen to make sandwiches.  
  
Connor was telling his father about a particularly comic episode from a summer camp when Roger Abrams arrived back, cheerfully calling a greeting from the hallway as he dumped down his briefcase. He came into the living room stretching his arms above his head.  
  
"Hi. Such a glorious day." Brigitte came in with a tray of sandwiches and gave her husband a kiss. "How's about we eat lunch outside?" Roger suggested, waving a hand at the window. "On the sundeck?"  
  
There was a pause. Connor and his mother exchanged glances and turned to Angel.  
  
"Go ahead," Angel said. "Please."  
  
"I'd feel very rude," Brigitte said, hesitantly, bending to pick up the tray.  
  
"I insist," Angel replied. "Believe me, I can easily while away half an hour alone. It wouldn't be the first time."  
  
"What's going on?" Roger asked. "Don't you feel well?"  
  
"I'm fine," Angel said, apologetically. He glanced at Connor, who shrugged.  
  
Brigitte surprised them both by moving her husband into a seat. "Remember last night you thought Angel looked kind of young?"  
  
"Bridge!" Roger exclaimed. "You weren't supposed to say anything!"  
  
"Actually I overheard," Angel confessed.  
  
"I … it wasn't …" stammered Connor's father, going a little red in the face.  
  
Brigitte sat down on the edge of the armchair. "It's all a little complicated, hon," she said. "And a bit weird. You see, Angel's actually a vampire."  
  
Roger's mouth dropped open. He looked from his wife to his son and back again, and then at Angel; and then he let forth a huge guffaw. "That's a good one. Did you guys spend all morning thinking it up?"  
  
"Well, that's better than a scream," Connor said. "I guess."  
  
"It's crazy, isn't it?" Brigitte said. "But there's this whole face thing. Not pretty."  
  
"And a drinking blood thing?" Roger laughed. "A coffin? Where's the black cape?"  
  
"Dracula has a lot to answer for," quoted Connor. "Right?"  
  
Angel nodded. "He had strange tastes." He sighed. "Welcome to my world, Mr Abrams."  
  
Roger Abrams scratched his head. "So this happened after Connor's birth?"  
  
"No, 263 years ago," Angel said. "Long years. Yet somehow this year is one of the best of them all. Go and eat your lunch, Mr Abrams, and I'm sure your family will explain things to you." He nodded encouragingly, and quickly disappeared upstairs.  
  
"I'm famished," said Connor.  
  
After the meal, he did not believe that Roger was any more convinced of the strange tale he and his mother had told, as his father went back to work shaking his head in confusion. Brigitte excused herself, and went off to grocery shop. Connor dug about and discovered some old board games, and a battered chess set, and took them up to the guest room.  
  
As the afternoon grew on, Connor noticed that Angel kept glancing towards the window, and as their game of Scrabble drew to a close – his father having beaten him by 150 points – he said, "you're going to go tonight, aren't you?"  
  
Angel put down "thrice" and counted the score, and nodded. "It's best for us all if I go. And I'm sure there's work back in LA."  
  
"I was hoping you'd stay another night."  
  
"It's not fair on your parents," Angel said. "And I need more space during the day. Somewhere to move."  
  
"Somewhere to be alone," said Connor, tipping letters back into the box.  
  
"I'm sorry," his father said, guilt burning in his eyes. "It's been a wonderful week. I'm sorry to spoil it now."  
  
"It's not you," Connor said, watching as Angel stood up and started to tidy away his few belongings. "Well, yeah, it is you, but you don't mean it. But I can still come and see you, right?"  
  
"Anytime. Just come. And keep up with the fencing, or a martial art. Call me if anything strange happens; anyone you see following you, human or demon. Promise?"  
  
"I promise."  
  
Angel nodded. "Good." He zipped up his bag. "That's it."  
  
Downstairs, Brigitte and a still disbelieving Roger protested at Angel's decision to leave, but he insisted politely.  
  
"Thank you. For looking after Connor so well. I am eternally grateful."  
  
"Emphasis on eternal," muttered Roger, shaking Angel's hand. "Drive safely."  
  
Brigitte took Angel's offered hand and then suddenly gave him a hug. "It's been lovely to meet you," she said, warmly.  
  
Angel disentangled himself and went to Connor. For a moment, they looked at each other, and then Connor came forward and put his arms around his father. "Bye, Dad," he said.  
  
"Goodbye." They shared a last look, and then Angel climbed into his car parked outside and started the engine, disappearing with a brief wave of his hand as the Abrams stood on the doorstep and watched him go. Roger was the first to turn and go inside, followed quickly by his wife; but Connor stood and watched until the roaring of the Plymouth's exhaust had faded in the night.  
  
THE END – for now …  
  
  
  
[Da da! I am planning on returning to this now wildly AU Connorverse at some point in the future. For the moment, though, I want to finish my current historical Angelus fic, which can be found by clicking on my name and then choosing 'The Breton'. Go on. You know you want to. Ta!] 


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